


The $$60,000,000,000.00 Man

by Sunshineditty



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Choices, Gen, One-sided obsession, Pervy Peter, Red Riding Hood - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-25
Updated: 2013-09-23
Packaged: 2017-11-15 00:45:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/521259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sunshineditty/pseuds/Sunshineditty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Fine, you don't have to wear the Red Riding Hood costume,” Peter easily agreed, then ruined it by adding, “though you will be in my dreams.”</p><p>“Do you stay up at night thinking up creepy and obnoxious rejoinders?”</p><p>“Would you like me better if I was a sulky broody wolf?” his blue eyes gleamed with malicious humor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Obsessivecompulsivereadr](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Obsessivecompulsivereadr/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Stiles...Has Potential](https://archiveofourown.org/works/503541) by [Obsessivecompulsivereadr](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Obsessivecompulsivereadr/pseuds/Obsessivecompulsivereadr). 



Stiles looked at the ridiculous costume lying on the bed and glared at Peter.

“Really, dude? Really?”

Peter smirked even as his eyes rove Stiles' body as if measuring for the perfect fit. “It will look good on you.”

“Hey, Pedowolf, eyes up top!” Stiles shivered with disgust. He doesn't know why he had thought it would work.

“Stiles, you must really get over your infantile reactions to my presence if you want our partnership to flourish.” 

The obscene way Peter's mouth curled around the word “partnership” almost made Stiles miss the buried insult, and he straightened to his full height, a bare half inch taller than the older man. 

“Look, we both know you need me so don't try to play it off any other way. And that -” he pointed imperiously at the red dress complete with red satin-lined black cape - “will never be worn by me, so you might as well send it back to whatever kiddie porn website you got it from.”

Peter sighed and massaged his temples as if dealing with the almost seventeen-year-old was the biggest headache of his resurrected life. 

“Fine, you don't have to wear the Red Riding Hood costume,” he easily agreed, then ruined it by adding, “though you will be in my dreams.”

“Do you stay up at night thinking up creepy and obnoxious rejoinders?”

“Would you like me better if I was a sulky broody wolf?” his blue eyes gleamed with malicious humor.

Stiles ignored the pointed reference to Derek by turning away to rifle through his dresser for a change of clothes. Ever since the Alphas rolled into town and declared war on the Beacon Hills Pack, Derek transitioned from Edward Cullen style brooding straight into Bronte hero territory. It was demoralizing for the pack, to say the least, and frustrating for Stiles because any time he _attempted_ to bring up some semblance of a plan, Derek shot him down or tried to intimidate him into silence until he couldn't take it any more; which led to this ridiculous and unfortunate circumstance.

Apparently the road to Hell _was_ paved with good intentions. 

Peter approached him after the last particularly bad pack meeting (where Derek had slammed Stiles into three, _count 'em three_ , different surfaces in an attempt to shut him up) with a distinctly sympathetic face and a quietly murmured, “I would like to hear your plan to take down the Alpha Pack.”

Now ordinarily when a former Bad Touch artist of psychotic proportions approached Stiles (which, since it's Peter, was nearly every other day), he ran in the opposite direction, but his Spidey senses kept warning him something big and bad was fast approaching, and if it meant he had to deal with the devil to keep his loved ones safe, well so be it.

“Such a loyal, loyal little lap dog you are, Stiles. Makes me want to collar and cage you for my own.”

Peter was suddenly much closer than he was comfortable with, namely close enough he can feel the wolf's breath across the sensitive nape of his neck. The gibbering fearful part of his brain wanted to scream manfully and flail away until the creeper McCreeperson backs off, but the cold analytic side, the pragmatic strategist who knew you must kill one to save a thousand, was fully prepared for this particular situation.

Because he was fully aware of his vulnerabilities as the lone human in a pack of wolves, even if he did magic from time to time, Stiles pow-wowed with Dr. Deaton over a few tricks and spells he might use if things got too hairy (pun totally intended). 

Wolves, even ex-Alpha turned Beta wolves, responded only to strength; it was literally coded into their DNA to respond to a strict hierarchy and Stiles fucked up the structure because he didn't fit the nice neat parameters they understood. For him to back down even a little to Peter, essentially submitting to his will, would send the wrong sort of message and would make the older wolf increase his joking-couched-serious invitations. 

Derek explained after he ascended to Pack-leader that an Alpha doesn't need the permission of anyone he wished to turn unless it was his or her mate. Forcing the change upon a potential mate screwed with the pack bonds in ways Derek couldn't adequately describe using human terms but enough so Stiles was able to understand and _finally_ answer the pressing question of why Peter had asked rather than just biting him.

It was both complimentary and terrifying at the same time. Peter was unlike any of the other wolves, Derek included, and for him to make it happen so he would rise from the dead like a wolven Lazarus indicated some pretty large plans in the works, magically induced, which made Stiles doubly wary.

So, Stiles did what he did best: he babbled as distraction while secretly whipping out his handy-dandy canister of Wolfsbane and squirted it in Peter's face.

Well, he intended to squirt it in the _vicinity_ of Peter's face, just so he would get a whiff of the laced air, but he misjudged how close the older wolf was. The bubbling and screaming were fascinating in a purely academic way, but horror soon outweighed even that when Peter fell to his knees clutching at the damage. It was sickeningly close to how he looked when Stiles first met him, face half-melted from the Hale House fire, and he felt his gorge rise at the evidence of his own ruthlessness, even if it was done accidentally.

“Oh my God, dude, I'm sorry, I didn't mean...I just meant to...oh god, what do I do?”

Peter was in no condition to respond, half-gasping on the floor as if his airways were compromised, which they probably were since he inhaled the full shot through his nose and half-opened mouth. A merry tone burbled from the downed wolf's pocket, shocking Stiles from the pitiful sight.

Instinctively he scrambled through Peter's coat and gratefully pressed the on button once he found the small black cell, sure it would be a packmate who would help.

His half-garbled “ I need -” was cut off by a low growly male voice he definitely didn't recognize.

“Have you captured the human boy yet, Peter? Our deal won't go through without him.”

“What?”

“If you want us to kill your Alpha, you must deliver the Stiliniski kid before we will act. Bring him to the bridge tonight or no deal.”

The caller hung up, leaving Stiles clutching the purloined phone and staring at a now very unconscious wolf. 

_What now, Stiles? Do you kill one to save a thousand? Or yourself?_


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scott has _terrible_ ideas.
> 
> Okay, maybe that's Stiles, but Scott should be a better friend and stop him from enacting them, even when he didn't know about them.
> 
> Oh well, this was probably going to end in death so it was sort of a moot point.
> 
> "Gee, Stiles, way to think positively."

"This is a stupid idea, Stiles, so why are you doing it again? And why are you talking out loud?"

Stiles would like to go on record (with himself) that he often has terrible ideas and Scott is a  _terrible_  friend for letting him go through with them - even if said best friend has no idea what Stiles is up to since he hadn't answered his phone or responded to any of Stiles' texts. He should know by virtue of knowing Stiles since Kindergarten: when in doubt, Stiles has horrible ideas. 

He tugged on the denim waistband, uncomfortable with the knowledge Peter's junk rested in the same exact -  _same exact -_ spot as his. Well, understandably since these were the jeans he stripped off the unconscious wolf, along with his shirt and jacket, so his scent would hopefully (God what a scary word) be submerged beneath the ex-Alpha turned Beta's. It was a long shot what he planned, but if he could get a clearer idea of why the Alpha Pack was here - and wanted him too - then maybe he could negotiate with them to leave Beacon Hills alone. It had less to do with Derek or his psychotic puppies, as much for Scott and his dad regardless of what Peter implied.

Stiles peered over his shoulder to where he parked Old Faithful - the jeep's new name - and wished he'd thought to bring bungie cords or  _something_ to tie up Peter. Even though he wasn't sure how much Wolfsbane he'd used, he couldn't put anything past the wolf. He  _came back from the dead_  so there was little Stiles could assign to him that didn't have the possiblity of happening, no matter how fantastical. It wouldn't be outside the realm of possibilty for Peter to awaken from his coma and screw up Stiles' (admittedly foolhardy) plan.

And of course it had to be done on a dark and stormy night in the middle of the dark scary woods because this was just his life now.

"We've come, Hale. I can smell the boy on you."

The oddly formal words were surprising as were the blinkered on red eyes like twin spotlights peering through the gloom of the clearing they stood in, but Stiles had enough experience with wolves popping in on him in unexpected places so his heart beat didn't skyrocket nor did he gasp. He didn't expect his ruse to hold up long since they were probably going to go through some super secret wolfy handshake he (obviously) wouldn't know, but he just needed a few minutes.

" _Now_  you're silent? You wouldn't stay silent the last time we met."

"And when was that?"

Stiles winced, angry with himself for breaking the silence and shortening the discovery time.

"Hmm, you  _are_ pretty," a feminine voice whispered from behind him, her minty breath ghosting across his cheek. "Did you really think we thought you were Peter Hale?"

He shrugged, though insoiance was only part of it, a good part of him just wanting her away from his vulnerable neck. "Not really. I'm more the bait."

A disbelieving laugh stuttered out of her and she spun him around by digging her claws into the meat of his shoulder. "You don't seriously think we weren't expecting a trap, right? That's why your pack is locked in their run down depot; they won't be your back up anytime soon."

Stiles' eyes narrowed at her words and he swung at her face, ignoring the pain of the claws ripping through his muscle and skin. It wasn't planned but an automatic response - his faulty fight or flight response at work once again; though for him, it was foolhardy and even more foolhardy response button. He missed of course and fell to his knees with a moan of pain as her claws slid from him in a rush of blood. He didn't bother looking up into her leering face, more interested in stemming the flow of blood streaming from his wound.

"You don't seem to understand your place in our world, human. You don't take the bite then you are prey, a sex slave, nothing more."

"Is that why you want me? I gotta tell you, I'd make a  _horrible_  sex-slave. I mean, c'mon, don't you want someone who actually has experience?"

In normal circumstances Stiles might feel ashamed of his virginity, but hey, anything to keep slavering Alphas from using his body as a chew toy was a positive thing.

"Hale owes us tithe for coming back to this territory. He hasn't responded to our summonings so he shall be punished until he pays his dues."

Stiles laughed disbelieving. "And you think taking  _me_  in any way will affect him."

He didn't know how, but he knew she smirked before replying. "Taking a pack's human will do that."

"Wha-?"

The cuff to the back of his head sent him sprawling face first on the wet ground and pain spread through his neck muscles before mingling with the mangled shoulder until he was nothing but a raw exposed nerve. Sadly she hadn't even hit him hard.

"Don't play stupid Stiles. It doesn't become you  _or_  me."

Peter's voice, husky with mad laughter, never sounded so good. For a brief moment Stiles was happy he wasn't alone, hoped that the older wolf would somehow get the Alpha to lift her clawed foot off his back and take him  _home_.

Then Peter spoke again and Stiles knew he was a fool.

"So I brought the boy as I promised. Now I want what  _you_  promised."

The male who first spoke when Stiles showed up, responded tersely, "They're locked in the train depot."

"You didn't kill the rest of his pack?"

"You can't handle a bunch of teenagers?"

The scoffing laughter came from a few different directions and Stiles was able to pinpoint at least one other in addition to the female on top of him and her cohort next to Peter. His heart sank even more as he came to the realization there was no one coming to his rescue. He was truly on his own.  Tears tried to rise to his eyes but he forced them back with the strength of will that had seen him through his mother's death and his father's near descent into alcoholism, had driven him to teach his best friend how to balance his dual natures, and gave him the ability to create a circle around the night club with Mountain Ash, even if it was made moot by Scott's near murder.

He wiggled a little, merely to test the Alpha's concentration, and nearly crowed in relief delight when her foot nearly slipped off and she didn't readjust.  _Of course not Stiles, you're a_ mere _human plaything to her._  Though that didn't really explain why she wanted him so badly, despite her talk about "sparks." If they needed magic, then why weren't they harassing Dr. Deaton? He was the man in the know and gut feeling told Stiles he was someone with true  _power._

"I will miss you, Stiles, truly. You've been a source of great amusement for me but now I need to finish off a certain intractable Alpha so I may have a chance at a new life."

He could've done without the accompanying tongue curl into his ear, but there was no way to retaliate against Peter so he growled low in his throat, ignoring the amusement of the wolves around him.

"Ah, he's like one of those adorable little dogs you see girls carrying around. I almost want to put him in my purse!"

Stiles dug his toes into the squelching mud and balled his fingers into fists while trying to keep his body from tensing completely. He knew he'd only have one shot at this and he had to wait until he sensed an opening, so he ignored the taunting words despite how he wanted to punch the woman, despite his father's disapproving face flashing before his eyes.  _Stiles, we don't hit girls,_ the phantom Sheriff admonished sternly. He didn't bother responding to him and instead breathed deeply before slowly exhaling.

All preparation was in vain, however, when he was simply hauled up by the scruff of his neck and manhandled into a standing position, no care taken for his mauled flesh.

"You'll do nicely for my collection," the female mused thoughtfully.

"My dad is the Sheriff and you don't want to draw attention to yourselves!'

It was a last ditch attempt at stalling what was rapidly turning into a situation beyond his control.  _As if you ever_ had _control,_  his inner voice sneered in a tone that sounded remarkably like Lydia at her bitchiest.

"What makes you think we're staying here?"

Stiles blinked mud from his eyes and tried to see who the new speaker was, but the moon was covered by clouds again and his eyesight failed to pierce the gloom. He shuddered from a mixture of cold and nerves, unwilling to open his mouth because he was sure his voice would shake and he didn't want his fear to be any more apparent than the pounding of his pulse and whatever his scent smelled like. He had no doubt they knew his emotional state, so it was more the principle of the thing.

For ever after, however long that lasted, he wouldn't be able to completely parse the events of what happened next. All he knew was Peter had abandoned him to the tender clutches of the Alpha Pack, three of whom circled him, the female (he sorta wished he'd gotten her name so he could at least assign her an identity other than "that female Alpha" or "the bitch") in front of him, then suddenly a whistling sound and an unbelievable amount of pain.

Pain because the head of an arrow had passed through his side and lodged in the Alpha's arm. She shrieked and dropped Stiles to the ground again, pain thudding through his body.

"Ow."

"Stiles, you okay?"

He closed his eyes in thanks, and raised his voice above the still screaming wolf. "Allison, you are my favorite person of all time. Can I tell you how happy I am to hear your lovely dulcet tones."

"Yeah, he's okay," Allison muttered, possibly to someone else since a gun barked from a different direction and the female Alpha fell silent. There was sounds of fighting further in the forest, so it sounded like Allison and her dad (?) hadn't come alone.

A moment later, a pale face appeared above him. "What are you doing out here?"

"I might ask the same."

"We were trailing the Alpha pack."

"I was, uh, trying to get them to leave Beacon Hills by giving them Peter."

"..."

"Yeah, it seemed like a good idea at the time. I mean a  _really_ good idea at least until I actually came and, you know, got all cut up." He was really terrified about moving as his neck and shoulder were approaching agony levels such he'd never felt before. It might acutally require a trip to the hospital instead of to the vet's. 

"Did you seriously come out here alone, Mr. Stilinski?" An older man appeared next to Allison and stared down in him with obvious disdain, a familiar expression he had whenever he came into contact with either Stiles or Scott.

Ah, yes, definitely Mr. Argent. 

"No, I sent a text to Derek and his delinquents telling them about my ingenious plan." It should've worked had the older wolves not anticipated that angle, but then Stiles probably should've realized Peter wanted Derek dead so he could take the red eyes back. 

"I see." 

"Dad, we don't have time for this. I think Stiles is really hurt - it looked like Kali savaged him when she was holding him."

"No, ignore me, I'm fine. You need to get to the train depot and stop Peter. He wants to become Alpha again -" a sudden thought occured to Stiles. "How many wolves did you get here?"

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"Mr. Argent, there are five Alphas and I only saw three here, which means two are unaccounted for.  Plus, you  _can't_ let Peter kill Derek, no matter what. I know you don't like werewolves, and Derek in particular after everything that happened, but you know Peter's definitely a worse option. I have a bad feeling you'll find Peter with the twins heading to the train depot if they're not there yet." 

"Allison, you get Mr. Stilinski to safety while we go after Peter."

"Dad -"

"You're lucky you were allowed to come here; don't think you're off grounding, young lady."

Stiles wondered what she got grounded for, then rolled his eyes at himself. Scott, obviously. He thought about sitting up, then his muscles quivered and he decided lying flat on his back was preferable.

"It's not fair!"

"Allison -"

"Um, I hate to break up this lovely moment, but um, I think I'm gonna pass out now."

And he did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently I wrote this a few months ago and I just found it; figured I might as well post it.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles and the Sheriff have a talk.

It was the power of the Sheriff's stare that brought Stiles from the murky depths of unconsciousness and back into the harsh reality of pain, a hospital stay, and the unrelenting suspicion of a father standing on the straw that broke the camel's back.

In a word: screwed. 

"Son."

"Father."

The whistling of a lonely train echoed across the plains and a tumble weed tumbled between the Sheriff's seat and Stiles' bed as they stared each other down in a true manly old western style. The drugs might've explained Stiles' mind's wanderings, but it didn't detract from the nervousness ratcheting up his heartbeat and alerting the Sheriff to the possibility (or  _probability_ given this was Stiles) of a lie coming out of his son's mouth.

"Don't tell me whatever you're going to say because I know it won't be the truth. It won't explain why my  _sixteen_   _year old_ son was found on the highway with a ripped up shoulder and neck that required several hours worth of surgery to reattach parts of his body that shouldn't be detached."

Stiles winced at the last bit, though internally grateful he couldn't quite feel that portion of his body just yet. He was tangentially aware of his immobility yet it wasn't as important as finding out what happened with Derek and the other wolves.

"Dad, look, I promise you I will fill you in on what happened - no lies I swear - but I need to know if you got any calls for the old abandoned train depot."

In a shift Stiles was used to, his dad morphed from being an angry upset father into a suspicious small-town Sheriff in a heart beat. Despite his civilian clothes and lack of a gun, it was very apparent he wasn't a man to mess with, at least when it came to the safety of Beacon Hills.

"So it  _was_ connected."

"What's connected, Dad? Oh god, what happened?"

The Sheriff's squinty eyed anger faded as sorrow took its place. Stiles  _knew_ that look and hysteria started building in him until the machines wailed his distress.

"Stiles, calm down, calm down son."

Panic had swirled through him, taking over his ability to breathe, and nurses suddenly burst through the door, pushing his distraught father out of the way as they tried to find a way to make him relax. Minutes, hours, years passed before the constriction of his chest passed and Stiles could take a breath; Mrs. McCall stood by his beside staring at the Sheriff with an angry look.

"I said you could stay here if you didn't upset him! This isn't what I call adhering to our deal."

"I know, Mel, I know. But he knows something...I need for him to tell me what the hell is going on."

The bellow died in the room long before the Sheriff's shamefaced reaction did. It wasn't a good sign when he was treating his heavily wounded son like a suspect. Something broke in Stiles then, and he reached out to touch Mrs. McCall's wrist.

"Is Scott okay? Derek?"

Her brisk nod relieved him, but she too had an aura of sadness, so not everyone came out unscathed. "Stiles...Erica...Boyd..."

He closed his eyes then, leaning back against the stiff pillows as pain of the psychic kind overwhelmed him. Everything had gone to hell and it was all his fault.  _All his fault_! If only he hadn't thought he was smarter than Derek, than everyone, those two wouldn't be dead. Oh sure, they weren't friends exactly, but they were comrades in arms, which made their deaths even doubly hurtful because of the lost potential. Stiles had always figured he could work on them, work on gaining their trust outside the battlefield, and possibly transition into more.

"Son, I can't protect you from this...whatever it is...unless you tell me what's going on. Why were you hurt? How does it relate to those teens' deaths? Are you guys in a cult?"

Bitter laughter spilled from cracked lips. "No Dad, much worse."

"Worse?"

"You won't believe me, probably commit me to an insane asylum, but I swear everything I'm about to say is true. Mrs. McCall can back me up on some of it."

"Start talking son."

And he does.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I blame the oxy wave I was riding for this - and a weird conversation I had with Obsessivekumpulsivereadr a few weeks ago, though this kinda went in a very different direction than I originally intended. 
> 
> Title because I'm watching _Trigun_ and I couldn't think of anything better.


End file.
